'I am Miss Watson,' she said in her low musical voice, 'and this is my friend, Mrs. Bentley.' Hubert bowed, and sought for words. He found none, and the irritating silence was broken again by Miss Watson. 'Won't you sit down?' she said.

'Thank you.' He pulled off his gloves. The pained, troubled look which he had met in Miss Watson's face seemed a reproach, and he regretted not having followed his own idea, and invited the young lady to meet him at Mr. Grandly's office. He glanced nervously from one lady to the other.

'I hope you have had a pleasant journey, Mr. Price,' said Mrs. Bentley. 'The country is looking very beautiful just at present. Do you know this part of the country?' Mrs. Bentley's words were very welcome, and Hubert replied eagerly—

'No; I do not know the country at all well. I have been very little out of London for some years, but I hope now to see more of the country. This is a beautiful place.'

At that moment he met Mrs. Bentley's eyes, and, feeling that he was touching on delicate ground, he stopped speaking. When he turned his head, he met Miss Watson's great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb the entire face, fixed upon him. They expressed such depth of pathetic appeal that he trembled with apprehension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. But it became suddenly necessary to say something, and, speaking at random, his head full of whirling words, he said—

'Of course nothing could be more sad than my poor uncle's death,—so unexpected... Having lived so long together, you must have——' Then it was Hubert's turn to look appealingly at Miss Watson; but her great eyes seemed to say, 'Go on, go on; heap cruelty on cruelty!' Then he plunged desperately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. 'He died about a month ago. Mr. Grandly told me I should still find you here, so I thought——'

The intensity of his emotion perhaps caused Hubert to accentuate his words, so that they conveyed a meaning different from that which he intended. Certainly his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and Miss Watson said, her voice trembling,—

'Of course we know we have no right here, we are intruding; but we are making preparations.... I daresay that to-morrow we shall be able to——'

'Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Watson; let me assure you ... I am sorry if——'

Taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, Emily covered her face in her thin, tiny hands. She sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room. Hubert turned to Mrs. Bentley, his face full of consternation.

'I am very sorry, but she did not give me time to speak. Will you go and fetch her, Mrs. Bentley? I want to tell her I hope she will never leave Ashwood. ... I believe she thinks that I came down here to ask her to leave as soon as possible. It is really quite awful that she should think such a thing.'

'She is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now a little overwrought. The events of the last month have proved too much for her.'

'Mr. Grandly informed me that it was Mr. Burnett's intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year. This money I am prepared to give her, and I'm quite sure she is welcome to stay here as long as she pleases. Indeed, she will do me a great favour by remaining. Please go and tell her. I cannot bear to see a girl cry; to hear her sob like that is quite terrible.'

'You will be able to tell her yourself during the course of the evening. I think it will come better from you.'

'After what has happened, it will be very difficult for me to meet her until she is informed that she is mistaken. I charged Mr. Grandly to explain everything in his letter. Apparently he omitted to do so.'

'He only said you wanted to see Emily on a matter of business. Of course we did not expect such generosity.'

They were standing quite close together, and suddenly Hubert became conscious of Mrs. Bentley's beauty. Her blue eyes were at that moment full of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity which Hubert so unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes told what was passing in her soul. Suddenly they both seemed to understand each other better, and, playing with the bracelet on her arm, she said—

'You do not know Emily; she is strangely sensitive. But I will go and try to persuade her to return.... Although only distantly related, you are cousins, after all—are you not?'

'Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. Tell her everything; beg of her to come down-stairs.'

Hubert imagined Emily's little black figure thrown upon her bed, sobbing convulsively. He was very much agitated, and looked about the room, at first hardly seeing it. At last its novelty drew his thoughts from his cousin's tears, and he wondered what was the history of the house. 'The old man,' he thought, 'bought it all, furniture and ancestors, from some ruined landowner, and attempted very few alterations—that's clear.' Then he reproached himself. 'How could I have been so stupid? I did not know what I was saying. I was so horribly nervous. Those strange eyes of hers quite upset me. I do hope Mrs. Bentley will tell her that I wish to act generously, that I am prepared to do everything in my power to make her happy. Poor little thing! She looks as if she had never been happy.' Again the room drew Hubert's thoughts away from his cousin. It was still lit with the faint perfumed glow of the sunset. The paint of the old decorations was cracked and faded. A man in a plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed his eyes upon him, and the tall lady in blue satin had no doubt played there in short clothes. He walked up and down, he turned over the music on the piano, and, hearing a step, looked round. It was only the servant coming to tell him that his room was ready.

He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies in the drawing-room, and it was a disappointment to find only Mrs. Bentley there.

'I have told Emily everything you said. She is very grateful, and begs of me to thank you for your kind intentions. But I am afraid you must excuse her absence from dinner. I really don't think she is in a fit state to come down; she couldn't possibly take part in the conversation.'

'But why? I hope she isn't ill? Had we better send for the doctor?'

'Oh no; she'll be all right in the morning. She has been crying. She suffers from depression of spirits. She is, I assure you, all right,' said Mrs. Bentley, replying to Hubert's alarmed and questioning face. 'I assure you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. Dinner is ready.' She took his arm, and they went into the dining-room.

No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of money matters, or of the young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introduced the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert's position as a dramatist.

'Your play, Divorce, is now running at the Queen's Theatre?'

No; I'm sorry to say it was taken out of the bills last Saturday. Saturday night was the last performance.'

'That was not a long run. And the papers spoke so favourably of it.'

'It is a play that only appeals to the few.' And, encouraged by Mrs. Bentley's manner, Hubert told her how happy endings and comic love-scenes were essential to secure a popular success.

'I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I do not quite understand.'

In a quiet, unobtrusive way Hubert was a graceful talker, and he knew how to adapt his theme, and bring it within the circle of the sympathies of his listeners. There was some similarity of temperament between himself and Mrs. Bentley; they were both quiet, fair, meditative Saxons. She lent her whole mind to the conversation, interested in the account that the young man gave of his dramatic aspirations.

From the dining-room window looking over the park the long road wound through the vaporous country. The town stood in the middle distance, its colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguishable. In the room a yellow dress turned grey, and the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the pink of delicate finger-nails was no longer visible. But the pensive dusk of the dining-room, which blackened the claret in the decanters, leaving only the faintest ruby glow in the glass which Hubert raised to his lips, suited the tenor of the conversation, which had wandered from the dramatic to the social side of the question. What did he think of divorce? She sighed, and he wondered what her story might be.

They passed out of the dining-room, and stood on the gravel, watching the night gathering in the open country. In the light of the moon, which had just risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, the town was faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, which here and there allowed a field to appear. In the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, rose up in the blue night. Beyond it was seen a corner of the ornamental bridge. The island and its shadow were one black mass rising from the park up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the right, between the town and the island, lay reflected in a narrow strip of water. Farther away some reeds were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative chatter of dozing ducks stirred the silence which wrapped the country like a cloak.

Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at the landscape. The fragrance of his cigar, the presence of the woman, the tenderness of the hour, combined to make him strangely happy; his past life seemed to him like a harsh, cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. More than he had ever desired seemed to be fulfilled; the reality exceeded the dream. What greater happiness than to live here, and with this woman! His thoughts paused, for he had forgotten the girl up-stairs. She was not happy; but he would make her happy—of that he was quite certain. At that moment Mrs. Bentley said—

'I hope you like your home. Is not the prospect a lovely one?'

'Yes; but I was thinking at that moment of Emily. I suppose I must accustom myself to call her by her Christian name. She is my cousin, and we are going to live together. But, by the way, she cannot stay here alone. I hope—I may trust that you will remain with her?'

Mrs. Bentley turned her face towards him; he noticed the look of pleasure that had passed into it.

'Thank you; it is very good of you. I shall be glad to remain with Emily as long as she cares for my society. It is needless to say I shall do my best to deserve your approval.'

Her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his happiness it seemed to him to be a pity that he should find unhappiness in others.

They went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bentley asked him if he liked music, and she went to the piano and sang some Scotch songs very sweetly. Then she took a book from the table and bade him good-night. She was sure that he would excuse her. She must go and see after Emily.

When the door closed, the woman who had just left him seemed like some one he had seen in a dream; and still more shadowy and illusive did the girl seem—that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a pastel, who had so troubled him with her enigmatic eyes! And the lodging-house that he had left only a few hours ago! and Rose.

On Sunday he had taken Rose out to dinner. They dined at the CafÉ-Royal. He had tried to talk to her about Hamilton Brown's new drama, which they had just heard would follow Divorce; but he was unable to detach his thoughts from Ashwood and the ladies he was going to visit to-morrow evening. Hubert and Rose had felt like two school-fellows, one of whom is leaving school; the link that had bound them had snapped; henceforth their ways lay separate; and they were sad at parting just as school-friends are sad.

'You are not rich; you offered to lend me money once. I want to lend you some now.'

'Oh yes; five shillings, wasn't it?'

'It doesn't matter what the sum was—we were both very poor then——'

'And I'm still poorer now.'

'All the more reason why you should allow me to help you.... Allow me to write you a cheque for a hundred pounds. I assure you I can afford it.'

'I think I had better not.... I have some things I can sell.'

'But you must not sell your things. Indeed, you must allow me——'

'I think I'd rather not. I shall be all right—that is to say, if Ford engages me for Brown's new piece; and I think he will.'

'But if he doesn't?'

'Then,' she said, with a sweet and natural smile, 'I'll write to you.... We have been excellent friends—comrades—have we not?'

'Yes, we have indeed, and I shall never forget. There is my address; that will always find me.'

He had written a play—a play that the most competent critics had considered a work of genius; in any case, a play that had interested his generation more than any other. It had failed, and failed twice; but did that prove anything? Fortune had deserted him, and he had been unable to finish The Gipsy. Was it the fault of circumstances that he had not been able to finish that play? or was it that the slight vein of genius that had been in him once had been exhausted? He remembered the article in The Modern Review, and was frightened to think that the critic might have divined the truth. Once it had seemed impossible to finish that play; but fortune had come to his aid, accident had made him master of his destiny; he could spend three years, five years if he liked, on The Gipsy. But why think of the play at all? What did it matter even if he never wrote it? There were many things to do in life besides writing plays. There was life! His life was henceforth his own, and he could live it as he pleased. What should he do with it? To whom should he give it? Should he keep it all for himself and his art? It were useless to make plans. All he knew for certain was that henceforth he was master of his own life, and could dispense it as he pleased.

And then, in sensuous curiosity, his thoughts turned on the pleasure of life in this beautiful house, in the society of two charming women.

'Perhaps I shall marry one of them. Which do I like the better? I haven't the least idea.' And then, as his thoughts detached themselves, he remembered Emily's tears.